


Remember How to Forget

by Summertime_saddness



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future, Gen, Memory Loss, Mindwiping, Post Season 5, Season 6 based purely off of rumors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summertime_saddness/pseuds/Summertime_saddness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police officer is smiling, like it’s supposed to be a joke that Malia obviously smells like shit and she’s being asked stupid questions about a boy no one even remembers having existed. All Malia wants to do is go home, take a hot shower, and curl up into her bed and forget that this mysterious "Stiles" ever surfaced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember How to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely off of all those "Stiles get erased from everyone's mind in Season 6" rumors. Mainly, I just missed writing Malia.

“Stiles, I think his name was. Stiles Stilinski.” The police officer scratches his nose, a piece of drying skin flakes off and lands on his upper lip. It’s distracting. 

“Do you remember him?” 

Malia doesn’t answer. She’s wet and cold, rivulets of dirty pond water dripping steadily down her back, soaking the top of her underwear. She smells like fish, rotten food, and mildew. The police officer sneezes. 

“Ah, sorry. Ma’am.” The police officer, Officer Bradley, says, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I’ve got an allergy to mold.” He’s smiling, like it’s supposed to be a joke that Malia obviously smells like shit and she’s being asked stupid questions about a boy no one even remembers having existed. All Malia wants to do is go home, take a hot shower, and curl up into her bed and forget. She settles for rolling her eyes obviously instead.

Officer Bradley's chuckles die down to awkward coughing, as he readjusts his notepad for the 100th time and clicks his pen from open to closed to back again.

“So, Stiles,” He says, in what Malia can only assume is supposed to be his “serious voice.” Which sounds like a poor impression of Christian Bale’s batman. “Do you remember him?” 

Malia sighs loudly, shifting her weight impatiently. “No,” She finally snaps out, “Why would I remember him? No one else seems too.” 

And it’s true, the name “Stiles” has only resurfaced a few weeks before, the boy that apparently no one could remember, including the only other Stilinski in town: the Sheriff. Labeled clothing, records with his name of it, Beacon Hill’s greatest mystery. 

“Ah, well, yes.” Bradley begins, clicking the pen again, “But, well, there’s this photograph, and we believe it be of this Stiles.”

“OK,” Malia says slowly, she can feel a piece of pond weed sticking to the left side of her ribs. “What does this have to do with me? I kind of need to get home.”

“Yes, though I still don’t quite understand why you and your friends decided to jump into that pond, but regardless,” Bradley carefully pulls out a photograph from his pocket, it’s laminated but underneath its protective layering Malia can see that it’s worn, bent and faded from being handled. 

“This man is who we believe to be Stiles Stilinski,”Bradley turns the photo so the image is facing Malia, “And this Ms. Tate, looks an awful lot like you.” 

It takes every ounce of Malia’s willpower not to shift, but she can’t help the low growl that escapes from her throat as she leans in, staring at the impossible photograph in Bradley's hand. It’s Malia alright, but she looks younger, brighter somehow too. Her face is rounder, full of leftover baby fat that’s surrounded by long light brown hair. Malia is wearing a Beacon Hills lacrosse t-shirt that looks a few sizes too large for her, she’s grinning wildly at the camera, both of her arms wrapped tightly around an equally as happy looking boy. Stiles. He looks...somehow both completely ordinary yet somehow Malia feels like he’s like someone she’s never seen, like a dream creation come to life. His eyes are open wide, a vibrant brown that looks almost gold in the picture. He’s pale, face dotted with moles underneath a messy mop of dark hair that’s half fallen across his forehead. One of his hands in wrapped up in her’s, and he’s leaning back into Malia’s embrace. She can’t figure out where they are, someone’s bedroom perhaps, she can make out a Star Wars poster and a drawing of a tree plastered on the blue walls of the strange bedroom.

“Ms. Tate,” Bradley says softly, “Are you alright?”

No. Malia wants to say, not she is not. She feels like she’s spinning, the world around her fading away to leave her, alone falling through empty space. She can hear herself gasping as she closes her eyes against the sudden nausea she feels, closes them against the photograph that she can feel being branded into her skull forever. 

“Ms. Tate?” 

Malia opens her eyes, blinking rapidly at Bradley who’s holding out a travel sized case of kleenex towards her. She’s sobbing she realizes blankly, ignoring the tissues to scrub roughly at her eyelids. She feels like her insides have been torn open, heart laid bear against the elements. She feels like her very soul is aching. 

“Do you know this man?” 

In truth, the answer is no. Malia has no memory of seeing this man in her life. She doesn’t remember the photograph being taken, can’t remember having his hand hand gripped tightly in her own. She doesn’t remember this bedroom she was obviously comfortable in, or the shirt she realizes must belong to this Stiles. She didn’t know she had ever been in love and that, at least for a little while, she was loved just as fiercely in return. 

Yet, somehow, she knows she knows him. Like the deep ache that has been present in her chest for months now has an explanation, that the way she’ll sometimes look around when she’s alone, like she’s looking for something, finally makes sense. 

Bradley is still standing there, looking at her expectedly. 

“I, I think I might, Malia begins, “But I don’t...it’s hard to remember.” 

Bradley nods, writing something down quickly into his notepad. 

“I’ll be contacting you again soon Ms. Tate, we’re hoping you’ll help us in this investigation.” 

Malia nods distractedly, already pulling out her phone to text the pack. If they can track down a displaced mermaid in a pond in Beacon Hills then they can figure out what happened to Stiles Stilinski.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
